


i wanna fall asleep (in your arms tonight)

by orphan_account



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Based on Book, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, POV Newt, Past Minewt, Sleepy Kisses, minewt is only mentioned, more or less, newt is not subtle about his crush, newtmas - Freeform, one sided though, thomas is asleep the whole time, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-18
Updated: 2017-07-18
Packaged: 2018-12-03 16:04:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11535660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "Newt found you last night and told everyone to let you sleep."





	i wanna fall asleep (in your arms tonight)

**Author's Note:**

> Basically Newt's perspective of the time Thomas freaked out and ran into the Maze, came back, and crashed out in the Deadheads.

He's frozen in his position, hands outstretched towards Tommy and one foot bringing him closer. Doubt and confusion keeps him from moving, and he can do little more than frantically call the other boy's name to bring him back to reality. Tommy is stumbling around the room, clutching his head and mumbling incoherently with rising hysteria and looking like a flat-out madman.  
  
Newt finally wills himself to help, and he's able to shout, "Tommy! Focus, you shank! Are you okay? What's happening?" He springs forward and grabs the boy's shoulders, trying to catch his gaze. But the boy is too immersed in his inner turmoil; he thrashes out of Newt's grasp without a hint of acknowledgement at the action and trips like a drunkard towards the door. Before Newt knows it, Tommy is lurching through the exit and disappearing around the corner. A fading shriek is left in his wake.  
  
Newt casts a quick glance towards the comatose girl lying silent on the bed, wondering with a surge of protective irritation if she is the cause of Tommy's craze. Then he dashes out of the infirmary and out of Homestead as fast as he can with his limp, cursing himself internally in the guilty, self-hating way that has become so familiar. The loathing is quickly suppressed, however, when Newt reminds himself he's after a goal much more important than his ongoing emotional battle.  
  
He runs outside and quickly turns in a tight circle, scanning the Glade for Tommy. When he spots him, headed in a swift beeline for the East Door, Newt's heart goes flying into his throat. He wants to scream Tommy's name, sprint after him and grab him and scold him for daring to set a single foot back in that Maze so soon after scaring Newt within an inch of death for disappearing inside once, but somehow nothing but a strangled gasp leaves his mouth. And his feet don't obey him, either: he simply staggers forward, an arm lifted in Tommy's direction, before he sinks to his knees. "Tommy," he whispers, eyes fixed on the Door his friend has vanished into.  
  
Newt stays there, hunched over in the grass, slack-jawed and in shock, for an unknown amount of time. He probably would've remained as such until the Doors closed (in which case he would be screaming and pounding the ground in front of the East Door because no way could Tommy survive another night and no way could Newt bear to lose that bloody shuck-faced piece of lovable klunk so soon) had Clint not come up behind him and shake him out of his stupor.  
  
"Hey, Newt," the Med-jack says, gripping Newt's shoulder from behind. "Everything alright?" Them, after a moment's consideration, "Where's the Greenie? Did Chuck come and steal him from ya?"  
  
The knowing undertone threading the last part clears the daze. Newt rouses himself and shakes his head, running a hand through his long blond hair with a sigh. "No, he..." Another sigh. "He ran into the bloody Maze again."  
  
At the sharp intake of breath, Newt jumps to his feet and turns on Clint with a sudden fury. He jabs a finger into the other Glader's chest as he insists firmly, "And not a single shuck word out of you, understand? No one hears about this. If anyone asks, yes, Chuck took that bloody shank off my hands and went to talk his ever-lovin' ears off. Wait, no--say he went to the Deadheads, or something. Anything but the Maze, get it?" Newt takes a deep, stuttering breath before moving in closer and hissing, "I don't want any other reason for anyone to have anything against Tomm--the Greenie. Am I clear?"  
  
Though their noses are almost touching at this point, Clint appears almost completely unfazed by Newt's outburst. If anything he has a little glint in his eye that unsettles Newt entirely. "Crystal," Clint replies with a smirk, gently pushing Newt away. He gives him a mock salute and bow, chuckling, "You have my word, Officer Newt."  
  
"Bloody fantastic," mutters Newt, stepping away. He goes to leave to somewhere where he can watch for Tommy when a thought flits through his mind. "Hey, Clint?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
Newt pauses, then asks quietly, "Actually, would you tell Minho about Tommy, if he's still around? I, uh--I'd feel much more settled if I had his specific set of eyes watching out."  
  
Clint gives a brisk nod. "Sure, Newt. I think he's still here, somewhere. I'll check to see if Frypan's feeding his appetite." Then, with a sly wink that makes Newt want to strangle him, he saunters off.  
  
Newt rolls his neck and shakes himself a few times before looking around, mentally reviewing the Glade. There isn't many places to get very high up, but maybe he could look out one of the windows on the upper levels of Homestead.  
  
Satisfied with his current plan of action, Newt turns and walks back into Homestead. As always, he struggles a bit on the rickety stairs, but he's long grown accostumed to his handicap. A grimace crosses his face when he leans a little too much, sending just enough pain shooting through his ankle to remind him of his ordeal, his own cries of agony echoing through his ears. A low growl rumbles through his throat and he slams the barriers down in his mind, barring the memories from getting to him, and the images are gone. For now.  
  
Newt reaches the hallway with the room with the girl and stops, making a quick decision. He quietly slips back into her room and leans against the doorpost, his eyes narrowing as he regards her. Teresa, Tommy had called her.  
  
What does she have to do with Tommy? Newt wonders to himself, staring at her annoyingly angelic face. In sleep, it's peaceful and temptingly vulnerable; he can only imagine how beautiful she will be when she's fully alert and conscious with those fiery blue eyes and tenderly curved lips.  
  
The thought of her awake and charming Tommy horrifies Newt so much that he backs out of her room, hating how easily the mere sight of her can rile him up. He moves with more speed, now, wanting to focus on the task at hand.  
  
He reaches the third floor and enters one of the few rooms built this far, walking to the wall with the window. Newt finds a stool and pulls it over so he can sit. Once he's situated, he leans on the rugged windowsill, gazing out at Glade and the looming East Door in the distance. A lump of raw anxiety and worry and concern and even panic thickens in his throat as he sits and waits. The shadows are slowly getting longer, and the glow of the sun is turning more orange than yellow. What if the Doors close and Tommy isn't back yet? What if he loses his way? What if a Griever finds him before dusk? What if--  
  
A tear sears its way down Newt's cheek and he furiously wipes it away, doing his best to convince himself that Tommy is smarter than that, smart enough to keep his wits. Smart enough to remember where he is. He reminds himself that Tommy spent one night in the Maze, survived where no one else has. He can absolutely find his way back to the Glade.  
  
From the moment Newt first saw the boy, first heard him speak, first shook his hand, he knew he was a fighter. A strategist. A boy with a passion to live. It was in Tommy's observant eyes and in his focused voice, in his stubborn nature and in his dangerously loyal heart. Newt knew all this from the start, and now realizes that it's Tommy's most infuriating qualities that will become his most endearing, that those will be the qualities that Newt will undoubtedly fall victim to. It's happened once before, only with Minho. He has the same drive in his heart, the same untamed fire in his soul. But the difference is, Tommy is determined where Minho plays it safe. That determination could become recklessness, as it almost had been that night, but Newt has always been a sucker for the things that aren't good for him. And it's Tommy, he knows, who will be the death of him.  
  
  
"You better not bloody die out there, Tommy," mumbles Newt, glaring intensely at the Doors. "Not before I have a chance to kill you. Running off before I can stop you, putting me through all this worry. Little ignorant shank, that's what you are, how could you do that?"  
  
Even as the words fall from his lips, he knows it's all fluff, all lies. He intends to chew Tommy out once the boy gets back, but he knows he'll end up embracing him instead, combing his fingers through his hair and whispering things like "Don't leave me again" or "Just stay with me instead" into his ears. Or, at least, that's what Newt thinks he'll do. He probably doesn't have the guts in reality.  
  
Newt groans and props his head up on his hands, wondering where this new heaviness in his eyelids is coming from. No, I have to watch for Tommy, Newt angrily tells himself, finding himself quite sleepy all of a sudden. Wasn't he asleep last night? No, he hasn't, for a while. Don't fall asleep. Tommy is more important than sleep. Tommy is more important. Tommy is...more....important...  
  
His eyes flutter shut and his body slumps forward.  
  
  
  
  
Newt wakes up to heavy footsteps creaking on wood, coming up fast behind him. "Wha?" he says groggily, lifting his head up from his arms. He squints, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and wonders for a split second why it's so dark. And then it registers inside him: night has fallen.  
  
The Doors are shut.  
  
Newt scrambles to his feet and whirls around, turning on the person who had entered the room. "Tommy! Where's Tommy? Where is he, that bloody shank better not be out there still or I'll kick his shucking arse into the sun," he roars, grabbing his companion and shaking him without thinking before realizing who it is. "Oh," Newt says sheepishly, stepping back. "Minho. I'm sorry, I--is he back? God, tell me he's back or I'll..." His voice trails off, not exactly wanting to voice where his thoughts had strayed.  
  
The Asian boy crosses his arms, muscles flexing under his tight shirt. He gives Newt a reassuring smile mixed with his characteristic lobsided smirk, resulting in a face that still pokes at Newt's heart. "Oh, Thomas is fine," Minho assures Newt with a laugh. "He came running back in here about an hour or so ago panting like the shucking puppy dog he is. Done gone and exhausted himself, that shank. I think he headed towards the southwest corner. Into the Deadheads, probably."  
  
"Oh. Okay," is all Newt can bring himself to say, unable to downplay the massive sense of relief Minho has brought him. He looks away from the larger boy's piercing gaze and manages to add, "Thanks for watching, Minho. I--" He wants to say more, express his gratitude for providing a safety net of sorts, but can't. Not with Tommy occupying most of his mind.  
  
Minho seems to notice, because he quirks a grin. "No problem. You really like the Greenie, don't you?" he asks without any hesitation.  
  
Newt can't meet Minho's eyes, especially now that he knows there's red in his face and a smile that he's so terribly hiding. "No more than you do," he says, lying through his teeth and trying to look his friend in the eye to confirm.  
  
Minho only laughs, clearly not at all believing him. "Whatever you say, Newt," he snorts. "Just thought I'd give you a kind little update on Thomas, since I'm such a nice, beautiful person. Now I'm off for a little snack. See if I can raid Frypan's kitchen or something. G'night, moony eyes."  
  
"Hey," Newt shouts, his face burning up as Minho skips out of the room, laughing all the while.  
  
The boy groans and rubs his face, exhaling through his nose. At least now he can allow the giddy grin to cross his face. It sounds like now he has to pay the Deadheads a visit.  
  
He walks out of the room and limps down the stairs, his gait wobbly and hurried. On his way to the Homestead exit, Newt pauses and makes a sharp turn on a whim. He heads towards one of the spare rooms where Alby keeps the extra beddings that aren't needed yet and grabs a set of blankets on the crudely constructed shelf. He's not sure if Tommy will still be in the Deadheads, or even asleep, but if he was running around in the Maze all this time and got back only about an hour ago, the Greenie probably done tuckered himself out and crashed in the forest.  
  
The Glade is growing quiet around him as Newt wanders through the courtyard, save the hushed snoring of some of the boys and the cricketing noises of the night. Every so often a stray laugh drifts through the air, coming from the groups of boys still up and about. He knows that if he were to listen hard enough, he could probably hear the moaning of the Grievers prowling through the Maze, but in no world would Newt ever voluntarily look for that particular sound. He passes by a campfire, where Frypan and Zart are sitting and murmuring softly to each other. They look up, surprised, as Newt comes closer to the flame.  
  
"Hey, Newt," says Frypan, straightening. "You come for a bedtime snack too?"  
  
Newt shakes his head and reaches for one of the smaller branches at the edge of the fire. He takes it and draws it out, the edge still burning, to use as a torch. "No, sorry, boys. I'm, uh, actually looking for Tommy. I heard he went to the Deadheads?"  
  
Frypan and Zart share a quick look. The latter glances back at Newt and shrugs, "Dunno. Haven't really seen the Greenie all day. He's a weird shank, that kid..." He points at the blankets tucked underneath Newt's elbow. "That for him?"  
  
Startled, Newt looks down at the linens. A blush that he hopes the firelight will hide spreads across his face as he replies, "Oh--yeah. I--yes, it's--for him."  
  
He waits for a witty remark from either of the pair, but to his surprise, none come. They just nod and shrug, sinking back against the log supporting them. "Alright; have fun finding him," calls Frypan as Newt leaves with a wave.  
  
The glow of the few fires still lit in the Glade grow dim as Newt draws farther away from the middle near Homestead and closer to the heavy darkness created by the dense grove of trees in the southwest corner. His own little orange halo surrounds him, flickering in the night. It seems to grow brighter as the darkness thickens around him with the trees, shadows dancing around him as he passes. The cool, mildly humid night breeze carries the scent of dry leaves and dirt and grass, an aroma that Newt has come to associate with home. There aren't any emotions tied to that feeling, though, and he can't decide whether or not that association is good.  
  
As he trudges deeper and deeper into the forest, unable to hear the distant sounds of the Gladers at this point, he calls out in a loud whisper, "Tommy? Are you around here somewhere?"  
  
When no response answers him, Newt frowns and breaks into a slow jog. Leaves and grass crunch under his worn shoes as he struggles to keep a grip on both the blanket and the torch lighting his way. "Tommy? Thomas?" he repeats, letting himself get a little louder. "It's Newt, ya shank...you're in here, aren't you?"  
  
Nothing but silence.  
  
Newt lets out a heavy sigh and keeps running, his sure footing resulting from months and months of journeys into the Deadheads. He lets his feet carry him rather than his brain; he instinctively knows where he is in perspective to the entire Glade. The southwest corner can't be much further: he's almost reached the end.  
  
"Tommy," Newt whisper-shouts, raising his voice. "Where are you?"  
  
He stops and raises the torch when still nothing responds. He turns around, waving his light to try and find the boy. In the crushing darkness without much starlight able to find its way through the thickly gathered treetops, the torch is able to light up about twenty feet in diameter in any direction. And yet, Tommy is nowhere to be found.  
  
Newt frowns. Maybe he isn't here, he thinks, turning back to face the remaining depths of the Deadheads. Maybe he walked back to Homestead?  
  
He's ready to turn back to Homestead and interrogate a few more people, maybe even enlist Minho's help in finding Tommy, but a part of him insists he finishes searching the whole of Deadheads just in case. It's not like he has anything better to do with his night. He knows himself well enough to realize that he won't be able to fall asleep unless he knows for sure that Tommy is safe and resting.  
  
Despite his newfound drive, a yawn steals across Newt's face and pushes his posture down into more of a slump. "Tommy," he murmurs, wiping a hand over his eyes. "Tommy, come on..." He blinks and stretches his free hand out to touch the wall that he suddenly realizes is directly behind the tree trunk to his right. He squints to see along the wall in front of him, trying to see where the south wall meets the west wall. A spear of energy stabs through him when Newt's gaze unexpectedly rests upon a curvy, huddled finger wedged in the corner between a few trees.  
  
"Tommy?" he gasps, all drowsiness disappearing in an instant. All at once he's running at full speed through the thicket of trees, dodging and weaving with some difficulty. Newt almost trips over a root but catches himself at the last moment, his breath hitching for a second.  
  
He slows when he reaches the figure and holds the torch out, drawing the light over the shape. An uncontrollable smile stretches his mouth from ear to ear when he recognizes Tommy's face tucked under an arm. By the looks of it, he's sound asleep, and has been for a while. His sides lift up and down evenly, slow with the breaths of a deep sleeper. His eyes twitch lightly every so often, and a little tranquil smile is plastered over his half-open lips.  
  
Newt tiptoes over him and kneels at his stomach, warmth spreading through his body at the sight of his friend. "Oh, Tommy," he breathes, swinging his legs under him and scooting closer to the boy's head. He drops the blankets to his side, tentatively stretches out a hand, and rests it on the side of Tommy's head, unsure if he whether or not he hopes the boy will wake up or not. When he doesn't, though, Newt is content all the same.  
  
He keeps his eyes fixed on Tommy's smooth face bathed in the golden rays radiating from the torch, which Newt had stuck a few inches in the ground, as he slowly begins to rub his hand over Tommy's head. He lets his fingers brush through the thick, short black locks, picking out the bits of dirt and leaves that had gotten caught in Tommy's hair. Newt bites his lip with a childish giddiness when Tommy lets out a quiet little sound in his sleep and shifts, subconsciously moving closer towards Newt.  
  
"Yes, it's me," whispers Newt, settling against the wall behind them. He lowers himself to the ground and keeps stroking Tommy's head, a hot, all-consuming bubble of affection rising up inside of his chest. "It's Newt, Tommy."  
  
The bubble bursts. Newt breaks into tears. And he's not entirely sure why.  
  
He lies there, one hand tucked under Tommy's neck and one tangled in his hair. He keeps his face distant, though, not wanting to wake his friend with his trembles and occasional sharp inhale. But still, it's closer than Newt could've asked for, and he has to clench his teeth to control himself. There's something strong, something tying them together, like two magnets pulling for its opposite. He can't see it, doesn't know what it is, but it's certainly there. Enough for Newt to feel his heart physically straining for Tommy.  
  
He lifts his eyes to Tommy's, watching his long black lashes flutter in his sleep. "You're bloody beautiful, Tommy," Newt whispers, tracing circles into the other boy's back. He involuntarily leans closer with his whole boy, shivering when their legs and torsos brush together. He can't get any closer, can't risk Tommy waking up with Newt cuddling him like this. But he keeps talking. "I wonder if I knew you before you came," he murmurs, his eyes dropping to Tommy's parted lips. "I wonder if we were friends...It--it feels like we were. Like we were...something great. Can you feel it too?"  
  
He half expects Tommy to peek open an eye and answer him with some smart-ass reply, but the younger boy remains fast asleep. The corner of Newt's mouth twitches upwards. "You can't be running into that Maze anymore, yeah?" he whispers, brushing a strand of hair away from the boy's face. "Scaring me out of my bloody mind. Isn't very nice of you to go and do that to me." He winces when he remembers that, on the contrary, Tommy will be doing just thing thanks to none other than Newt himself. "Well, Minho will have to take care of you. He will, I know he will. 'Cause if he doesn't, that shucking idiot will have to deal with hell from me. But I trust him. I do."  
  
He bites his lip again and gets as close as he dares, close enough to feel Tommy's slow breath against his face. He closes his eyes and grips the other boy's head a little tighter, more possessively. "I don't know about that girl, though," Newt admits, tense at first. He relaxes when he reminds himself that Tommy is asleep and won't hear his confessions. So he continues. "She sets me off somehow, makes me feel like I just can't settle around her, ya know? I don't feel...safe. There's just something strange about her and I really, honestly wish you didn't tell me you knew her--know her. I wish you two weren't so...close. Because you are, we both know it. Close like how I want to be with you. But I guess she already took that place, huh?"  
  
His voice cracks, and Newt lapses into silence. He feels a little guilty voicing his true feelings about the girl, but also feels as if a burden has been lifted from his shoulders at the same time. He lapses into silence, focusing on feeling the bumps and curves of Tommy's bones and muscles underneath his skin. He knows that this is probably wrong, that he should maybe, absolutely not be doing this, but he has an innate sense that for them, for him, for Tommy, whatever is lacing them together makes this is okay. That in another life, a happier one, they once lied like this, hands in hair and under shirts and legs looped around each other and lying so, so close. And that it had been okay, and it had been while they were both awake, both smiling and holding each other close.  
  
This feeling threatens to overwhelm Newt as it begins to build up, up, up, begins to collect into a tidal wave that will crash over him in the form of fierce sadness and longing and nostalgia for a time that he can't even remember. The worst part is that he knows there are memories, memories with Tommy, just out of reach. So tantalizingly close that Newt thinks he can uncover them if he tries with all his might, but everytime he tries, it's not enough. Never enough.  
  
Burning tears run down Newt's face for the second time that day, and he sniffs deeply, feeling more exposed than ever. His fears, his insecurities...they all come crawling over him like a disease. Suddenly Newt wishes Tommy was awake, was holding him too. But he knows he already values Tommy's life a million levels over his, so he keeps quiet, swallows the sobs. One day he'll get what he needs. One day he'll be huddled against Tommy's chest, enveloped with Tommy's arms and his head pressed against Tommy's neck.  
  
One day it'll be okay again.  
  
Newt tugs Tommy a little bit closer. Then, out of nowhere, as if he had sensed the distress just inches away from his face, Tommy moves again and reaches out with a barely audible mumble. Confused and startled, Newt doesn't move at first. But when it becomes clear that Tommy is for some reason looking for something to hold, he gladly inches forward and lets his body bump against Tommy's. Then, with a sigh, Tommy's arms and hands find a home around Newt's thin figure and still once again.  
  
Newt almost bursts into tears all over again at their closeness. He slips his arms around Tommy's neck and holds him, shaking all the while because God, if this isn't what he wants, then he doesn't know what is. A hiccup manages to escape, and though he may be imagining it, Newt swears that Tommy's hands got a little tighter around him. And yet, somehow, he's still deep in sleep, has no idea what's happening. But the notion that Tommy instinctively knows when someone is hurting, specifically Newt, and does his best to act accordingly is enough for now. Either that or it's just luck that Newt happened to be within arm's reach when Tommy stirred, and he'd much prefer to believe that it was on purpose.  
  
They lay there for what feels like hours, and Newt almost falls asleep in Tommy's arms. But he keeps waking himself up, keeps telling himself that he has to leave before someone else finds them. But everytime he thinks he's ready to go, he feels the fingers curling into his shirt or feels Tommy exhale on his face, and the thrill of being so close to the boy keeps him there. It's only when Tommy's hands loosen around him and he moves just enough that his arms fall away that Newt rouses himself and gets up, trembling violently.  
  
He stares at Tommy and then up at the sky. It's still dark and the moon is still in sight, suggesting that not as much time as Newt expected has passed since he came in here. He looks over his shoulder in the direction of the Glade, and when he really strains to hear, he thinks he can still hear some Gladers moving around near Homestead. Someone is bound to be looking for him soon.  
  
A breeze pulls his hair to the side, sending chills down Newt's body. He recalls the blanket and grabs it from the ground, shaking off the dirt before carefully placing it over Tommy. The boy senses it and curls into himself, looking impossibly calmer.  
  
That same heavy feeling of love so strong and deep that Newt doesn't know how to handle it sets over him again, and he bends down on a whim. Before he knows what he's doing, his lips are gently pressing against Tommy's, hands cupped gingerly around his face. Emotions of every kind surge through him, tendrils of heat and guilt and joy and heartache squeezing him so tight he thinks he'll choke. He breaks away quickly, his lips tingling as if electricity is sparking over him. Tommy hadn't moved at all save for his mouth widening a bit, like he had felt the kiss just enough to begin to respond. Tears well up in Newt's eyes and he has just enough time to whisper, "I love you so bloody much, Tommy," before scooping up the smoking stick that had once been a torch and backing away from the boy nervously.  
  
He wipes his eyes and turns on his heels, sprinting away from his friend and running blindly through the darkness. Somehow he manages not to fall, though he trips and runs through multiple bushes on his way back. By the time he emerges, his face is stinging from the thin branches that had whacked against him.  
  
Newt tosses the stick to the side and rubs his face as he runs back to Homestead, hoping he doesn't look like he had been lying down or crying. Two fires are still alight, and he recognizes the pair of boys around one. Minho is one of them, and Chuck is the second.  
  
"Shouldn't you be asleep, Chuckie?" Newt says, walking up to them casually. Chuck and Minho turn to him, surprised.  
  
"Well, what about you?" Chuck protests, staring up at Newt and planting his feet. "Shouldn't youuu be asleep?"  
  
Newt laughs and looks over at Minho, who's staring at him with questions in his eyes. Newt purses his lips and ruffles Chuck's hair, ignoring the smaller boy's protests. "Hurry off to sleep, you shank," Newt smiles. Then, too Minho: "Tommy's in the Deadheads, like you said. Let him sleep--he's had a long day."  
  
Minho looks like he expects more, but Newt sets his jaw and turns away as a clear signal that he's done. The Runner sighs and agrees, "Alright. He's in the Slammer all tomorrow, right?"  
  
Newt nods and looks at Chuck, who has still stubbornly not moved an inch. "Come on, slintheads," Newt teases, grabbing their shoulders and steering them towards Homestead. "I'm tired and I'm going to sleep with or without you two."  
  
"Aw, you want us with you? Is li'l Newtie patootie afraid of the dark?" jokes Minho, inciting wild laughter from Chuck.  
  
Newt gives him a hard look, but his mind is elsewhere. He lets go of the boys and hangs back as they walk towards Homestead, watching Chuck stare adoringly up at Minho. Then Newt turns, gazing at the Deadheads across the grass and envisioning Tommy still sleeping serenely. He  won't remember anything, but Newt will. He'll remember it all, enough for them both and then some. He'll never let go of the memory, not until his dying breath. Only then will he let it go along with the air in his lungs, like a tender goodbye to someone he loved more than anyone else in the world. But while Tommy is awake and around him, Newt can't let him know what was done tonight. Not until the time is right. Then he'll expose it all, every last part.  
  
His fingers drift up to his lips, feeling a ghost of a kiss dance over them. Newt smiles, his heart pounding, and turns away and walks into Homestead.  
  
  
  
  
END

**Author's Note:**

> I'm mentally preparing myself for February 2018. I'm not ready for TDC to release...


End file.
